


So You Don't Have to Say

by Randominity



Series: All These Secret Places [2]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Dom/sub Play, Established Relationship, F/M, Kink Negotiation, Safewords, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-24
Updated: 2013-01-24
Packaged: 2017-12-08 09:24:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/759758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Randominity/pseuds/Randominity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eleanor pushes Louis just a <i>little</i> farther.</p><p>
  <i>Louis knows the sort of things they do probably need the sort of words they’ve agreed upon beforehand, some way he’s supposed to communicate beyond tacit approval. Eleanor gives him plenty of freedom to ask questions and to express concern, and he’s never— there’s never been anything he didn’t trust her to see him through on.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	So You Don't Have to Say

Eleanor climbs onto his lap, straddling him and rocking her hips up, not quite close enough to touch, kissing all over Louis’ face before licking into his mouth. She tastes of apple and whiskey and she tangles his collar in her fingers, tugging him nearer while his hands settle on her hips.

Louis meets her kisses with quick, gentle nips, but disengages as much as he’s allowed in the space he’s got. He hums against her mouth, half a whinge because he loves this, teasing kisses like this, but he has to go before they get caught up in anything further. “My back teeth are floating, babe,” he breathes against her lips. “I’ll be right back, I promise.”

Eleanor tips her head until their foreheads are touching and wordlessly slides her hand down the front of his shirt, over the slight rise of his belly. “Stay?” she asks, unfurling her fingers and trailing them down below his ribcage, where she presses her hand like she’s supporting herself against him.

He grins at her, uneasy. “I might just be drunk enough to wee myself,” he says. “You’d better let me go.” In response, Eleanor quests lower with her fingers to the dip below his stomach, digging in, pushing, and Louis curls under the deep ache of it, the sharp pressure. He squeezes his thighs together between her legs on a gasp.

“If you stay,” Eleanor says evenly, pressing in rhythmically, making him bite his lip and turn his head, “we could find out if you  _are_  drunk enough.” She raises up on her knees and  _leans_ , putting more of her weight on her fingers, and Louis shudders, his breath quickening. He won’t, he can’t, that would be— awful, it would—

“No,” he hears himself say weakly, frowning, his gaze on her thighs fencing him in, and Eleanor draws back, sitting on her haunches, on his knees, to watch him. It takes him a moment to meet her eyes again, and when he does, they’re curious.

“No?” she says. “Stop?” She lets go of him and holds her hands up, in view.

Louis knows the sort of things they do probably need the sort of words they’ve agreed upon beforehand, some way he’s supposed to communicate beyond tacit approval. Eleanor gives him plenty of freedom to ask questions and to express concern, and he’s never— there’s never been anything he didn’t trust her to see him through on. This… he hasn’t got the right words for this, for what he’s feeling right now, as Eleanor makes him squirm in this chair. He has nothing in his vocabulary right now other than words of caution. “Not stop,” he says, “Just, I—” he shakes his head. “Go— slowly?”

Eleanor nods, shooting him a reassuring smile. She pets his cheek fondly. “Let’s get something plastic under you, yeah?” she says, and climbs off in search of bin bags, while Louis pinches the inside of his own thigh to ground himself, runs his hands over the bruise. They settle on a chair in the kitchen, where there’s tile on the floor, and Eleanor arrays bin bags beneath the chair and over the cushion before seating him down again, climbing back over him.

“If ‘no’ isn’t really what you mean,” she says, her mouth near his ear as she works her hand slowly down his chest again, getting him used to it. “You can still say ‘stop’, or ‘red’, if you need to. All right?” Louis nods, already strained to distraction as she presses against him with the heel of her hand, fingers draped over his cock and he’s half-hard, his thighs shaking. He can’t be sure whether it would be easier to go or to hold it at this point, but he can’t think enough to talk, his bladder aching under Eleanor’s touch. His hands twitch by Eleanor’s sides, not sure whether he can touch her, hold her, whether he should pull her in or hold her at bay.

“You’re doing so good,” she says at last, pulling back just enough to lift her dress up over her head, leaving her in just her bra and pants. “It’s a bit much to talk, is it?” she adds, returning her massaging hand to his lower abdomen and holding herself up with the other arm around his neck. “Don’t think about it so hard,” she coos, and Louis can’t help but laugh, then moans at the sharpness of it, feels his stomach jump under her fingers.

He feels like he’s on fire, flushed and turned on and so very exposed, seriously contemplating having a wee in the middle of his kitchen. “Could you,” he slurs, “unzip— or maybe I could—” he slides his hands below hers and adjusts himself, tries to direct his hardening cock down through his jeans.

“Through your jeans,” Eleanor says, “like that, yeah, good,” and helps him, slips her fingers inside his waistband and points him downward and then, keeping her fingers there, she braces her weight entirely with her other hand on his bladder.

“Oh, shit,” Louis moans, and his back arches under her until his arse slides to the edge of the chair, unable to clamp down on the trickle that squeezes out, and then unable to stop the flow at all. “No, no, oh, god,” he sobs, his jeans warming, and he can feel it coarsing down the inside of his thighs, the fabric of his jeans growing heavy as he squirms and Eleanor rocks up against him and it  _keeps coming_. He feels sick and light and that strange sense he sometimes gets that he’s going to come when Eleanor’s teasing him with a toy, cock untouched.

“Yes,” Eleanor tells him, “good, Lou, wonderful, you’re perfect,” holding his cock down between her fingers in his jeans and he clutches at her arms, wanting to climb into her and writhe away. His eyes sting with tears and he bites his lip on a whimper and can’t help but push out the last of it, his bare feet damp at the cuffs of his jeans where the warm wetness has started to drip onto the bin bags on the floor.

He squeezes his eyes shut as Eleanor unfastens his flies and he feels her breath on his face as she says, “I knew you could do it, Lou, you’re so lovely for me,” and he’s hard again already and just so _relieved_  as she wraps her fingers around his cock properly. She strokes him fast and Louis clings to her, gasping, coming quickly over the bottom of his shirt. “You’re all right,” she says, and Louis bats at her weakly, shaken, chest heaving with his breath.

**Author's Note:**

> Because I couldn't let the Domme!El universe go just yet. Originally posted to Tumblr.


End file.
